a stomach rolling
like a runaway truck down a mountain road
I then ask.
Where is this going?
It is going,
going into the future,
I ease the clenching fists I have made
I let the strands run through my hands
following them as they trace their way ahead
Then I raise my hands.
“Something good will come of this.”
I heard a story,
it came from your lips,
but it was my story.
I heard you say that God met you,
and your words echo in my chest.
So, the Divine came to you in your silent place, too.
The Divine wrapped you in love, too.
I heard a story,
it came from my lips,
and it was our story.
She opens her hands to me,
Putting hands together like a bowl.
“Give it to me.”
I release the anxiety and fear
Into the cupped hands of grace.
“I dropped it, it’s gone.”
I breathe deep,
realizing that I have been holding it in
Toxic exhalent held for far too long.
She pulls me in.
And I relax into her embrace.
I am home
And despite handing over the darkness
Into her cupped hands,
I am filled.
at any given moment the sediment settles
as the water stills
the solids drop to the bottom
if left alone they will build in layers
calcifying and becoming stone
for some future expert to point to the timeline of my now stony stories
but something moves the waters
it is you wading into murky depths
with no fear of the unseen below
you swim and dance, churning up the silt
your fingers swirl in the disturbance
making my story curl and unfold at your touch
The Water washes particulates down stream
and I am left, washed and healed.
via Daily Prompt: Churn
small and scared
with buttery fingers
and Teflon hands
I cannot hold the reality of this charity
I am terrified I will lose it
What is it to be happy
to be enraptured
to be swept away in wonder?
What is it to lean back into the bosom of tenderness?
I look at my hands
but then they are filled
and you hold tight
don’t worry Beloved,
I got you.
via Daily Prompt: Wonder
two voices lift a song,
but they do not harmonize
the notes clatter
ping off the other
each reaching for me to hum along
one song has sharps, stuttering rests
endlessly played demisemihemidemisemiquavers
punctuated crescendos that raise the noise to unendurable volumes
leaving me writhing in sorrow, shame and confusion
the other song was started before my birth
it is soft like the trees shaking loose their dew onto porch shingles
it does not compete with the other or manipulate my attention
but it is relentless
its tune carries my self, a rhythmic repeat of the shape of me
it is this tune that I reach my hands up to grasp
I listen for it even as the second songs raises its tempo in an attempt to drown
When I sing along with the kind song, I have won
or maybe this week
via Daily Prompt: Above
How would it be to know the future,
to know the path
to see the words before I choke on them
to make a plan most perfect
to have a life without trial
How it would be to side step the sorrow,
to never dry dampened eyes
to avoid the sting
to make a happy life
to have a life without grief
How it would be to hold the details
to all the tomorrows
to see the swell of change unfold
to make the decisive move
to have a premonition of bloom.
How will I work and pray into existence a tomorrow to behold?
by gratitude for the days unfolding
by seeing through the love that has been given even through the grief
by making peace and kindness my banner
by having silence befriend my anxious thoughts.
via Daily Prompt: Premonition
via Daily Prompt: Imagination
I am given the choice she says to follow a path to the sea or a path to the wood.
Oh Alexa if only I could!
Leave dreary winter days and bask near the water.
I shade my eyes from the sun
but my arms are bare
I hear the sound of gulls
the fragrance of salt in the air
I dig my toes into warm layers of sand
break through to the cool dampness below
the wind whips my hair around
draws tracks on my nape
a kind hand is held while skipping the waves
warm conversations while ice spins in the glass
sun setting slow with colors deepening
stars coming out while sleepiness creeps in
my day dream is ending as the moon is rising
What a dream, what a day in my imagination.
Previously published October 1, 2015 on my now defunct blog The Thing to do with Hearts
Before me is a hundred options to be and to try–at lease it feels like that was true a decade ago;
now the options trickle in two by two if any by any at all.
Do I find myself in the wilderness of my own wonderings?
Have I avoided entering a land that I already hold residency?
Should I unpack the dishes or sell all my possessions?
Should I lay foundations or stay the stranger–the stranded–the out-of-placer?
I know you have called me beloved, but what does a beloved do?
beloved-sit-still-er or beloved-never-settled?
shhhhh…….quiet now. When you step to right or the left there will be a voice behind you saying,
“this is the way to go.”
My soul has been pricked
and my heart has been pushed
Blue, beautiful fire
Blue-Green, the hottest places in my soul’s furnace
Demands for justice in hot tears role out from that bloomery
the malleus drops
and the spark flies
igniting the willing furnaces around.
Who will be the Stoker, who will light the fires?
My inactivity is not a possibility
any shallow existence not tolerated
the flames lick up against the edges of my form
burning away the nonsense and fear
In my eyes the fire back lights
and glow narrow and steadied
my voice picks up among the others
instead of the cacophony of a 1000 hammers falling at random
together our voices
amplify the others
what begins in the furnace of the one
is now the fire of the people